


Ideology

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode Related, Humor, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, in a bathroom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reservations may be too hard to get, but there are other hard things at Tourniquet that Cecil has a much easier time getting his hands-- and mouth-- on. </p><p>[Cecearl. References "The Retirement of Pamela Winchell."]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ideology

**Disclaimer:** Nope.

 **Author's Note:** I'm aware that I have a dirty mind, but episode 52 made double entendres so _easy…_

 **Warnings:** PWP in the form of bathroom blowjobs. Cecearl, which means infidelity on Cecil's part. Spoilers for "The Retirement of Pamela Winchell." Written and edited fairly quickly.

 **Dedication:** For videntefernandez, because it's been a while since I wrote anything for her. Which seems unfair, frankly, seeing as every time she posts Earl or Cecearl related art it makes my day 9042034 times brighter. So I figured I should do a little something to say thank you, even if I'm just one of five billion fans doing exactly that. XD; Keep being awesome, Vidente & co~ <3

Also, thanks to asmilewaiting for playing last-minute beta. U da best, yo. <3

  
**XXX**

_Oh, listeners! I finally got a chance to eat at Tourniquet, Night Vale's hottest new culinary night spot. I mean, I didn't get to eat their food, or sit at any of their tables… Reservations are still just_ too hard _to get. But I did make a PB &J at home and eat it quickly in their front waiting area as the maître d' glared at me implacably— as he does to everyone, due to the fact that he is a large idol carved from volcanic rock. But despite the less than ideal visit to the restaurant, it did give me a chance to say hello again to Earl Harlan. Now, it was a big surprise for me—my childhood friend, Earl Harlan, working at this restaurant after being dragged away by mute, inter-dimensional children, not to be heard from again for a year and a half. It was a big surprise for me, obviously, because I had no idea he had any interest in cooking! Let alone the skills to be a sous chef. Well, I invited him to come on the show sometime, and give all of us a few cooking tips. I don't know if he'll take me up on it, but we might be lucky enough to get a peek into the mystical, nearly forgotten art that is cooking. Won't that be dangerous? And probably illegal!_

~Cecil Palmer

"The Retirement of Pamela Winchell"

**XXX**

**Ideology**

**XXX**

Idols, by virtue of being idols, are kind of like the rock gods of the geology world.

No pun intended.

Well, maybe half-intended. Still, Cecil thinks he might understand why they are so highly respected, chiefly amongst restaurant owners and those scientists who identify as petrologists, or sedimentiologists, or whatnot. Volcanologists, too, he figures, head cocked to the right as he scrutinizes the hewn deity before him. Said deity glowers in return. Unblinking, its face fashioned into a tiki mask of intimidation, the sculpture proceeds to do all the things that a good antiquated idol-slash-upscale maître d' should. That is, scowl at an underdressed and unscheduled guest in obvious distain, soulless eyes judging the intruder for those dark secrets kept rotting within his heart.

Cecil contemplates the implications of this as he takes a hasty bite of his sandwich.

It's not that he's surprised by the less-than-welcome welcome. It doesn't really disturb him much, either, despite the eternal-void-blackness of the statue's mildly hypnotic stare. After all, he had expected nothing less; large idols carved from volcanic rock are renowned the world over for their ability to recognizing a gazer's intent. How pure the one before them is, how corrupt… It is a talent on par with their ability to hold numerous sheaves of paper in place during a strong wind. The radio host admires this latter trait in particular as a strong blast of cool air whistles through Tourniquet's foyer, rustling the menus that the maître d' has stored beneath his gigantic stone rump.

No, it's not that Cecil is surprised by the idol, or disturbed by it. He had expected all of that. It's just that he's not entirely sure what to expect from the one who has marched into the waiting area, all scarlet hair and freckles and drying smears of blood. The door to the dining area swings to a shut behind him, cutting short the wind that had been doing truly impressive things to the chef's uniform. His apron gives a last, dramatic billow as he regards the one chowing down on a gooey triangle of peanut butter and jam.

Then Earl Harlan blinks, startled. Not so startled as to make Cecil think he hadn't been warned about the disobedient radio host in the lobby, but startled enough to suggest that he hadn't quite believed his ears. Generally a wise course of action, to be sure. Ears are as notorious at lying as eyes, and starfish, and Steve Carlsburg. But here Cecil is, forbidden snack and all.

The radio host grins as his old friend gapes, violet eyes as bright as dripping globs of jelly. They're equally shiny, too, nostalgia and half-melted candles having added rosy glints to his irises. Lifting a sticky hand, Cecil waves and offers a cheerful, "Hey there, Early Bird! Or… Late Bird, I guess. Since, you know. It took you _ages_ to bother letting me know that you're not dead anymore." He frowns, pensive, as his greeting takes a turn for the passive-aggressive. Cecil then rips off another hunk of gluten-free bread, grinding down on a bulging mouthful of peanuts before demanding, "Whydntulemmenouwerebagk?" in a voice both mulchy and nearly incomprehensible.

Earl winces at the accusation; Cecil pouts as he accuses. The maître d's expression becomes somehow flintier as the radio host makes it abundantly clear that he cares as little for the rules of decorum as he does those rules that dictate how restaurants are run. Or how current regulations deal with eavesdropping. In spite of the prompting, if static-riddled cough that resounds from behind a nearby shrub, as well as the obvious confusion of those Night Vale citizens littered about the room— leaning curiously forward, all but falling from their Judas Cradles and Iron Chairs— Cecil does not bother swallowing and repeating himself.

He doesn't need to. Earl had understood, and that's what matters.

Earl is, in general, good at understanding things.

"Because there was kind of that StrexCorp takeover thing…?" the redhead reminds, rolling his mismatched eyes. It is an exasperated gesture, though affectionate despite this. He sighs, arms crossed tight, as he wanders closer to the radio host, reaching out to pluck the prohibited food from his guest's spindly fingers. "You were busy. And distracted. And Verizon has this weird habit of cancelling one's cell phone contract if they haven't paid a bill in over a year. So there's that."

"Bugydinchutellmeboudcu'ing?" Cecil queries, clutching his sandwich more possessively when he realizes its safety is threatened. Earl does little but to extend a palm, silently asking for it. Which, on the surface, doesn't seem like a particularly menacing gesticulation, but the radio host knows better. He remembers what this man can do when threatened. Eviscerated gobs of gore ooze over Cecil's wrists as he clamps down on his supper, jaw still struggling around an overly enthusiastic bite. "Idinne'e _no_."

The former scoutmaster sighs, tapping his foot as he awaits a relinquished sandwich. "I _did_ tell you," he steadily assures, fingers flexing in emphasis. "I did _more_ than tell you, back when we were kids. But the number of times we hung out together and the number of times you got yourself reeducated weren't exactly equivalent towards the end."

Earl arches a meaningful eyebrow, wordlessly demanding.

And Cecil, equally wordless, gives in to those demands.

"Ah—! Ew, Cecil!" the sous chef gasps, flinching back as the last quarter of the other's sandwich is tossed artlessly in his direction, too low to be conceivably caught. It splatters mushily against his apron, leaving brown and purple smears over his stomach. They clash rather juvenilely with the bloodstains. As wads of mostly-eaten bread slide from Earl's hip to the floor, the radio host coos in sympathy, reaching out to grab pristine hands with his tacky ones. Which, of course, merely serves to make everything worse.

And better.

Cecil can feel the daggers of the idol's grimace prod into his spine. Figuratively speaking. Literally, the statue is doing no more than glaring very hard, which is not nearly enough of a deterrent to keep the radio host from smirking with half-hooded eyes. He tugs at Earl's arm, equally undeterred by the jangle of hidden knives and decorative metal loops stitched down the front of the chef's snug shirt. As if he hasn't made a mess of the man enough, Cecil threads his fingers through two of those faux bondage rings, smudging the hoops as he gives Earl a pointed pull towards the adjacent restrooms.

"Oh dear," he murmurs as he does so, his voice as rumbling and sonorous as those mysterious noises coming from the restaurant main. "I'm so sorry, Birdie. Let's clean you up."

"Cecil, I can do that in the kitchens, I— _Cecil_!" Earl protests, feet squeaking over linoleum and displacing scattered hay as he is dragged down the hall by the slighter man, soles squealing in resistance. And frankly, Earl is broad and muscular enough that he should be able to render any use of force ineffectual. But as he's always been, Cecil is tenacious when it comes to getting what—and who—he wants. The former scoutmaster, despite all of his badges and experience, can do little more than uselessly flail his limbs as he is hauled over the jamb of the men's room, his back colliding with the coarse gray brick of the wall as Cecil slams shut and locks the thick wooden door.

The mounted torches flicker from within cast iron grates, firelight catching off the ivory sheen of the radio host's sharp teeth. That light isn't the only thing to catch. Earl swallows hard against the hiccup of breath that wedges painfully in his throat, though he prides himself on managing to keep his expression schooled.

"Cecil, this is my place of employment," he reminds coolly, shoulders chafing against rough rock like blue jeans chafe against starched trousers. O-rings jingle sweetly in the raspy hush as Cecil releases them, only to immediately grab onto similar decorations. Like a boy on a playground, he swings a bit—arms spreading wide as he uses the loops to climb simultaneously up and down his companion's body.

"It's your break," he retorts, leer twisting with mischief as his left hand ascends to trace the plump of Earl's bottom lip, and the right dives low enough to fiddle with a poorly curtained zipper. One of these reactions inspires an expression of mild surprise; Cecil takes a guess as to which with a muffled snort. "I am, in fact, good enough at my job as a journalist to know how to find _that_ much out."

Earl hums, tilting his head—though the way it tilts _out_ of the radio host's grasp suggests that his concerns haven't yet been properly addressed. The chef shifts, feet chocked, as he leans delicately forward: close enough to loom, but not so close as to give Cecil any ideas. Or any more ideas, as it were.

"What about that hero of yours?" he whispers then, not exactly accusatory, but not without accusation, either. He expects the not-so-subtle reminder to elicit some kind of over-the-top reaction—perhaps a wail of sudden insight as Cecil wakes from whatever spell his hormones have cast over him—but instead the radio host merely dons an amusing expression, features contorted in adorable bemusement as he stares up at Earl from beneath his brow.

"'Hero'?" he echoes, incredulous. With a teasing snort, Cecil's lower hand plucks at the tarnished fabric covering Earl's abdomen, rumpling it enough to catch glimpses of a taut belly. Crusty bits of PB&J tumble down the apron loosely wrapped around his hips, hitting the floor with the same staccato lightness as Cecil's voice as he points out, "That sandwich wasn't even a _hoagie_ —what kind of chef are you?"

"That's not what I— _Oh._ "

Earl groans—first from frustration, then for a different reason entirely— as he is pressed more firmly to the wall. It is not the only thing that he is firmly pressed against, nor is it the only thing pressed firmly against him. Stabilizing hands twine around toned arms; a turgid pressure acquaints itself with the chef's hip. A warbled keen is scooped from him by a tongue that tastes pleasantly of processed sugars, tickling his palate and exciting his pulse in ways that are likely very bad for his heart. He indulges for a moment, sweetly suckling the remnants of peanut butter from the other's honeyed mouth. But when he feels a certain Mr. Palmer begin to live up to his name, he breaks away with a crack of broken suction and a snap of saliva—catching those wandering hands by the wrists.

"What's your plan here, Ceese?" Earl wheezes, fumbling a bit as the radio host tries to fill the room with two different kinds of pants. Cecil, who has the gall to look innocuous even when he's half-in, half-out of his best friend's slacks, flurries his lacy lashes, his features flushing fuchsia.

"Just to say hello again," he assures, if breathlessly, as he presses all the closer to the chef he's cleverly captured. Chin finds shoulder and nose brushes temple, a velveteen purr rumbling through chest and ear alike as the radio host innocently nestles, and then not-so-innocently gives his fingers a wonton squeeze. The gesture has the chef jolting, inadvertently rubbing them together in all the right ways. It's an accident that evokes a blissful moan from his friend— and even Earl has to marvel at the way that their bodies seem to instinctively and perfectly align. Cecil doesn't need to buck: he merely needs to breathe, deeply and evenly, and that friction alone is enough to drive them wild. But the slighter man does more than that—of course he does, the little demon— going so far as to roll himself up and back and up and back on the balls of his feet, striking against Earl like a flint against tinder. It starts a flame in the redhead's loins that is almost too hot to handle, licking steadily upward as something far more literal begins to lick lazily _down_ , each ravenous sweep of tongue deliciously punctuated by a graveled voice murmuring, "It's been a year and a half. I wanted to catch up, as it were. I've missed you."

"Y-you mean you've mmm— missed our meaningless string of… of rendezvous and booze-fueled one night stands," Earl chokes, the words as tightly threaded with tension as the torso that Cecil is gracefully rappelling down. Elegant fingers slide from ribs to waist to pelvis in measured bursts, interspersed by kisses stamped to a sensitive sternum. Then to a quivering belly. Then to his smoldering loins, the skin hidden beneath his uniform already blotched with patches of crimson and heat.

Fingers curling beneath stiff hems on their quest for something stiffer, the kneeling Cecil glances up the length of Earl's wiry body, his expression as pointed as his exposed teeth.

"That's not what I said."

And before his companion can protest further, the radio host expresses his position in a new and highly more effective way. He shapes his lips and waggles his tongue, and generally moves his mouth with all the skill and dexterity that one would expect from an orator, without actually orating anything. For despite what that idol—and, now, a whole waiting room full of his fellow Night Valians—might believe, Cecil does, in fact, know that it is rude to speak with one's mouth full. Obviously, Earl knows this too. His manners have always been impeccable. And so the radio host is not at all surprised to hear absolutely no sound come from the other, seeing as how forcefully he has clamped down on three of his knuckles.

Cecil's own knuckles grow pale as he claws at the cobbled floor of the bathroom, nails catching in the grooves as he cants forward and back. His knees throb, but with the same pleasant ache as other body parts. He groans, soft and low; the sound reverberates through his breast and lips and Earl as well, leaving the chef so badly shaken that the support of the wall becomes necessary in ways that it hadn't been before. There is a thrill in managing this, something like victory. Cecil grins around the girth in his gullet, pleased… But that feeling only becomes pure _pleasure_ when Earl responds with a deep and thunderous growl.

The hand that is not currently plastered over the ginger's mouth peels away from the wall, reaching over to instead flex against Cecil. A callused palm caresses hollowed cheeks, fingers pinching the nerves beneath damp tresses; he grips the finer hairs at the base of the other's tilted neck and holds him still: prodding with deceptive lightness at tender pressure points. Cecil mewls, catlike, as if to complement the way he has been captured around the throat. He braces, but otherwise holds eagerly still as shapely hips pull back and—

" _Hngh!_ "

The undulant motion loosens slippery stalactites of saliva, viscid liquids slopping over the radio host's chin and dribbling into the grout. Juddering from the force of the thrust, Cecil whimpers ravenously, eyes round and imploring. One slender hand remains against the ground, clawing further channels into the stone; the other has lifted to cup his own pulsing length, trapped within a husk of denim. He makes no effort to extract it, only entices himself with the promise of further contact. The soft of his palm trembles beneath his erection's hidden heft, waiting for another perfect jostling to add the friction he so desperately craves.

Amethyst eyes, heady with lust, articulate a plead so perfectly persuasive that Earl has little choice but to do as he is asked. He is, after all, a chef—it's his job to feed the hungry.

"Nn— _Cecil_ ," the redhead hisses, with a snap of his hips that buries him deep in the other's throat. That throat constricts, pulsing in approval, as Cecil groans and huffs and shudders into his own touch. He keens once more, the noise pitched with desperation, and Earl doesn't need to be told twice— he drives in again and again, harder and faster, his blunted nails leaving deep grooves in the other's porcelain skin. Bruises threaten to bud and blossom on kneecaps and napes, but neither man pays the pain any more heed than to notice how marvelously in enhances the pleasure.

" _Ngh—!_ H-hah, f-fuck…!"

Earl curses, the words wickedly raw as they tumble from a mouth unobstructed. He gasps, he swears; he bucks and beats, and Cecil mimics each lurid sound with escalating delight as he ruts into his fist, and Earl ruts into him. The juxtaposition of wetness and fire tingles from their tops to their toes as talons scrabble long laths into tender flesh, fingers and loins curling tighter and _tighter_ and _tighter_ _and_ —!

" _Ah—!_ "

The chef keels, mewling as he folds over Cecil's stooped form. One last lunge, and he is so deep in the other's throat that swallowing is hardly a necessity. Of course, Cecil does so anyway, if only to savor how the obscenity of his slurping makes the other twitch. Delicious. He can hardly get enough. With a series of kittenish licks, the radio host slackens his jaw— releasing his captive only when he cries out, too, having finally found his own release. Simmering insides boil over, effervescent and broiling; Cecil nuzzles into Earl's wonderfully excruciating grip, still salivating from satiated cravings, as a damp splotch grows on the front of his jeans.

"O-oh…"

For a minute, they breathe— collecting themselves, both mentally and physically, as the metaphorical dust settles. The literal dust settles, too, as it is brushed from Cecil's slacks. The radio host stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like a child after a particularly messy meal. Which it had been, all things considered. As he smears around traces of grape jam and other thick fluids, Cecil smirks, sweeps his tongue over his teeth, and says:

"You should come on the show sometime."

He allows the offer to hang, graveled and layered, for the length of another leisurely swallow. Then he adds, "Or prior to the show. Or after."

Earl's expression is as flat as the wall he leans against as he levels his companion a long stare.

"Hmm." The chef pretends to chew on this proposal, carding spidery fingers through sweat-dampened hair that—for once—is not the reddest thing in the room. That award goes to Cecil's cheeks, with his own face running a close second. "I'm not sure that's such a great idea. The two of us, unsupervised, in a small, secluded box—the lights low and our knees touching beneath the table… I mean, yes, _one_ of us has trained to be a consummate professional: versed in the art of speaking to large groups, even under the most stressful of situations. But the other is you."

The radio host squawks, mockingly affronted. Then he juts a hip, choosing to hammer a counterpoint home via his pointer finger. "I will have you know that I, too, am a consummate professional," he tells his friend, prodding at Earl's heart through the very center of a decorative ring. "The difference, of course, is that being a professional chef requires a lot of handwork. Radio interviews are hands-free."

Earl cocks an eyebrow, mirroring Cecil's guilelessness.

"So you're looking for a hand-job."

"What I'm looking for is to satiate a carnal need suffered by all men, myself and my listeners included," the radio host corrects, without actually bothering to correct anything.

"Ah. You mean hunger."

"Duh. What else would I mean?" Cecil simpers, rubbing at his stomach as any other might when their appetite has been whetted. Only, as his smile crawls upward, his palm slinks down—petting circles into skin a bit too far south to be accurately considered his belly. Earl scoffs, turning his attention to his own chest as he begins to straighten his uniform.

"I'm pretty sure on air sex counts as 'indecent exposure,' which is a crime, Cecil."

"And here I thought you enjoyed living dangerously."

"I do. I just also enjoy _living_. And I haven't had a chance to do that in a while. Not after… you know," the chef reminds, readjusting his apron over the spattered stains on his trousers. Then, with a gentleness that unintentionally undermines the austerity of his voice, Earl plucks up the tip of that apron and uses it to dab his companion clean, too. He scrubs at the other's face, and hands, and slacks, until Cecil is rid of the worst of his unsightly 'leftovers.' The radio host loses just a touch of his enthusiasm as he is gently lectured, looking genuinely saddened as he surmises:

"So… That's a 'no' to an interview?"

He mopes a bit at this, his countenance curdling from disappointment and regret. Which isn't particularly shocking, in and of itself—Earl has known Cecil since they were very young, and the latter has never quite grown out of sulking when he doesn't get his way. But what does startle the chef is that his companion's remorse appears to have less to do with a thwarted tryst, and more to do with his own thoughtlessness. Puppy dog eyes shimmer with unspoken apologies, pale lilac and glistening. A bottom lip quivers, repentant. The sous chef sighs, helpless to quash the old urges that well within his gut: a scoutmaster's need to reward good behavior, and his own desire to make this ridiculous man happy.

"Well," Earl relents, choosing his words as carefully as he does what places on Cecil to scrub, "it's not a 'yes,' but…"

As usual, Cecil sees an opening and leaps on it. Thankfully, in a less literal manner than he had only a few minutes before.

"How about this, then?" he says gleefully, his previous contriteness already long-forgotten as he chirps around the fabric that the other jabs into his dimples. "Why don't you drop by my apartment sometime this week? We can do a run-through. You could teach me a simple recipe and we'll see if I can't convince you to teach the community the same."

Earl hesitates, giving the prospect due deliberation without lowering his hand. Or his guard. "What would you like to make?"

"A mess of you," Cecil sing-songs, with the playful leer of a man who knows full-well that he's being a little brat. He makes no attempt to dodge the shove that Earl rightfully gives him, laughing openly when he, too, stumbles into the wall. As if doing so might salvage his claims to poise, Cecil crosses his arms and legs, posing against the brick like the leading man of some 90s after school special. He then flashes one of his more charming smiles, amending, "Failing that, something that goes well with moonshine."

The redhead hums. "Right. I'll give my cook book a read."

"Excellent!" the radio host exclaims, elated, as he pulls himself straight again. Well—as straight as Cecil Palmer is capable of being, anyway. With a wink, the slighter man presses a friendly kiss to Earl's cheek—murmuring something about a 'tip'— before dancing to the door. With a final strut, arc, and pop, the man gives his bulging back pocket a conspiratorial little smack, patting it in lieu of a wave goodbye. "While you review that, I'll review my Little Reporter's Book of Big Boy Note Taking."

"You—?" Earl's eyes grow wide—almost as wide as the dinner plates that he'll again be dealing with in three short minutes. "Cecil, were you recordi—?!" he begins, only to be cut off by the slamming of the bathroom's thick wooden door.

Oops. That was a bit rude, wasn't it? Oh well. Cecil beams to himself, too happy by all that he'd gathered—both orally, and in writing— to bother with guilt at present. He'll deal with it later, as he deals with most things. It's so much better to live in the _now_ , he's long since learned. And for now, Cecil is waltzing back to the restaurant's entrance, feeling contented in a way that he very much hadn't the last time a wooden door had closed on a man he loves. But life has a funny way of turning things around, doesn't it?

And on the subject of turning around…

"My compliments to the chef," the radio host purrs, spinning to wave a merry goodbye to the maître d' as he saunters past. The judgmental god does nothing to respond, of course—judgmental gods rarely do anything these days, whatever sins they witness— but Cecil doesn't mind.

He's sure Earl will get the message, one way or another.

  
**XXX**   


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